Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle (20 page)

Granny B relied on Morg for counsel in virtually all matters. He performed a role for her similar to that which the Duke of Edinburgh performs for the Queen. He was consort, adviser, closest friend, and, in many ways, a husband in all but name. He was the one member of the court I always hoped would come over to the MT drinks extravaganzas because his uplifting presence allowed me to forget my unease around some of the less than charming, overly unctuous courtiers. But he seldom did because he knew it would be disloyal to Granny B.

Morg’s career in politics had seen him rise to the top of, and remain for many years a potent force in, the Conservative Party. But after the war he avoided the limelight, choosing to devote himself more to the needs of Granny B and the castle. When he came to see us at the MT it was always a personal visit, just him, dressed in his customary tweed jacket, sober tie, corduroys, and shiny brown brogues. He was very close to both my parents, and they adored him like a second father. Frequently he played croquet with David, James, and me, giving us the benefit of his stellar wit and wisdom for an hour or more on sunny afternoons. We laughed when he dropped his mallet and wandered over to a large bush at one corner of the MT to have a much-needed and highly indiscreet pee, humming and often reciting loudly a dirty limerick for our benefit: “There was a young fella from Kent / Whose prick was so long it was bent / So to save himself trouble / He popped it in double / And instead of coming he went.”

To have been able to spend considerably more time in the company of David Margesson would have been ideal, but castle way procedures resolutely, frustratingly, barred the way.

*   *   *

Between 1960 and 1965 things started going wobbly in Great Britain for the old-school-tie aristocratic caste who had become serenely comfortable in their top-dog role hundreds of years before the actual invention of the necktie in 1660. (The story goes that a bunch of Croatian soldiers turned up in Paris that year for a parade wearing brightly coloured handkerchiefs around their necks. Their acute fashion-forward awareness was swiftly adopted and, naturally, fine-tuned, first by the French, then by the English.)

English “society” probably changed more between 1963 and 1970 than during the titanic struggles of the century’s first fifty years. But neither at the MT nor at boarding school were political, cultural, or anything that might laughingly be termed philosophical discussions raised as a matter of course. They did not enter the classroom beyond passing reference, and they failed to put in an appearance at our dining-room table—which was strange considering the number of political and business heavyweights who regularly assembled for weekends at the castle and whose presence was keenly felt, often at MT cocktail time.

When President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas on November 22, 1963 (midway through the winter term at St Aubyns), I saw the grim, grainy pictures and read the story on the front page of the
Daily Express
before heading off to morning chapel. Although it came as a huge shock (“What
is
the world coming to?” I could hear Nanny expostulating), I still felt alienated from the event and its implications for the United States and the rest of the world. I was focused at the time on work, sports, my friends, and the imminent replacement of “She Loves You” by the Beatles at the top of the charts by their next single, “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” a feat unsurpassed in the annals of pop music.

Sir Alec Douglas-Home, 14th Earl of Home, became British prime minister in October 1963 and was the last aristocrat to do so. He was obliged to renounce his title in order to put his name forward for the job, but he did not come out on top as a result of people voting for him. He was appointed by an inner circle who thought his background made him ideally suited to the task. In the general election the following year the voting public disagreed—by the smallest of margins—and sent the pipe-smoking, mackintosh-wearing, lower-middle-class Yorkshireman Harold Wilson to 10 Downing Street for the next six years. He had been director of economics and statistics at the Ministry of Fuel and Power during World War II, when Woody had been secretary of mines and secretary for petroleum.

The “Swinging Sixties” then began in earnest. Mr. Wilson wasted no time ingratiating himself with the swingers by including the Beatles on his New Year Honours List in 1965. Amidst great fanfare the band trooped off to Buckingham Palace to receive their MBEs (Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire) from the Queen, much to the fury of several distinguished former recipients who returned theirs in disgust at what they saw as the cheapening of the medal. I would have preferred to see all the Beatles created peers of the realm (lords) with hereditary rights and have done with it. It would have provided essential viewing to witness Lord Lennon debating foreign affairs with either Lord Carrington or Earl Jellicoe (Conservative leaders of the House of Lords in the mid- and late 1970s), and, of course, we’ll never know what breadth of knowledge and keen insight the 1st Baron McCartney might have brought to the House if given the opportunity.

*   *   *

During these years we had a few changes of staff at the Maiden’s Tower. The kitchen and staff sitting room were off the entrance hall, and downstairs were the bedroom, bathroom, cellar, and back door leading out to the service drive, where all deliveries to the MT and the castle took place. My father kept the key to the cellar always on his person for fear that couples who came to work for us might have designs on his wine and spirits.

Watts was a half-decent butler with an unpredictable personality and lively manners. He was very short with a face resembling a chewed-up cigar, but somehow he had managed to find himself an attractive wife who also knew how to cook. Upon our return from church one Christmas Day we discovered him dressed in full regalia—tailcoat, striped trousers (at the MT the butler was asked to wear normal jacket and trousers), and wearing his medals from World War II. He reeked of whisky and staggered from kitchen to dining room, carrying spoons, plates, and dishes with great uncertainty, all the while muttering and mumbling under his malodorous breath.

Having somehow succeeded in serving the turkey and vegetables, which had been neatly carved and laid out on a serving dish by his long-suffering wife, he stepped back from the table, cleared his throat noisily, and proceeded to make a speech, first on the welcoming nature of our family, followed by a disquisition on the greatness of the British Empire. Much to everyone’s amusement my father allowed this spectacle to reach its natural conclusion, which meant waiting until Watts had run out of things to say, which he did after some five minutes. He then bowed modestly and stumbled back to his quarters, not to be seen again until the following morning.

Watts and his wife were not dismissed for this irregular behaviour because it was becoming increasingly difficult for my parents to find good couples. Working in a household as staff had lost most of its appeal by the middle of the 1960s, on top of which the number of country-house owners who could afford to maintain their properties, let alone fill them with domestics, had dwindled after the war to a fraction of what it had once been. Being someone’s servant connoted a form of deference the age had pugnaciously set out to destroy, and history emphatically notes its success.

We were fortunate. Thanks to the skill of her advisers (and, perhaps other indeterminate factors) Granny B’s cocoon of wealth remained relatively intact. And so, from inside my gilded bubble, I observed and absorbed the revolution of Socialist Members of Parliament, rock stars and hairdressers, playwrights, theatre producers, movie stars, television personalities, photographers, fashion designers, models, and footballers taking over Great Britain’s airwaves and headlines with my ears tuned in and an idealistic foot planted firmly in two camps.

14.

T
ERROR AT THE
G
ALLOP

In January 1963 I was given the chance to test my mettle by going fox hunting in Ireland with Granny A and the infamous wild and woolly Galway Blazers. Terrifying as it appeared, the opportunity could not be turned down—or indeed avoided. I’d never been to Ireland, so the prospect of staying in Dunguaire Castle with David and James for a few days right after Christmas seemed like fun. But I was far from convinced about the hunting. My brothers had gone the year before and said it was great, although James’s comments about the jumps—“Holy Moses! You should see the size of those walls”—had not exactly been encouraging.

I also had reservations about Granny A’s boot-camp approach to life. David claimed to have worked out a satisfactory antidote, which basically entailed saying yes to whatever he was instructed to do but modifying what he actually did to suit his original plan. James permitted little to upset his apple cart and charmed his way out of most difficulties. Although I believed I possessed elements of both brothers’ worthier characteristics, being much younger I had not yet figured out how to put them into practice. One thing I felt quite sure of, though, was that castle way thinking was in for a drubbing.

*   *   *

Colonel Hislop, a powerfully built, jovial man with a huge moustache and a firm manner, with whom I’d been taking riding lessons since the age of seven, had done his best to bring me up to a standard where I’d be capable of handling two days out with the Galway Blazers. I’d attended the Colonel’s riding school near Bearsted, five miles from Leeds, once a week throughout the previous summer and winter holidays, and by the end of this strict regime he had me clearing jumps in the show-jumping ring practically as high as the top of my pony’s head and cruising round the cross-country course with confidence and a modicum of style. He told me I’d be just fine, especially if I kept myself at a sensible distance from the gentlemen who drank more than one glass of port before the off. It turned out, though, everyone drank more than one glass of port before the off (apart from Granny A who did not drink), which made it difficult to follow that particular piece of advice.

*   *   *

Entering the reception area at Shannon Airport, Ireland, all three of us heard our grandmother before we saw her.

“Over here, boys, over here!” her melodious yet firm voice rang out across the hall.

She need not have spoken. Granny A stood out wherever she was. There in Shannon she could have been the Blarney Stone incarnate, such was the manner in which her presence appeared to shrink all those around her into specks of insignificance. She was dressed in her customary long gabardine skirt, dress shirt, waistcoat, tweed jacket, hat, veil, and shiny black boots, and the crowd waiting to meet their friends and family parted like the Red Sea for Moses as she strode towards us with a huge smile.

“How
are
you?” she inquired, ignoring the formality of kissing but hugging us all powerfully from a great height and pounding our backs with wild enthusiasm. Greetings dispensed with, she summoned porters with a wave of her riding crop as she sailed off towards the luggage conveyor belt, assuming, quite rightly, that we’d follow. It was just a few moments before our suitcases appeared, one after the other. Granny A instructed our bemused porter how to load his trolley and then, as we headed for the car, exhorted the poor fellow to walk quicker, walk slower, in fact to walk in every possible way except the one of his own choosing. Our conversation was minimal because Granny seemed intent on conducting our exit from the airport as if it were a military exercise: “Left here, right here, mind that dog, follow me, catch up!”

Fortunately the car ride took only one hour and a bit, so when we arrived outside the walls of Dunguaire Castle and Granny parked her Volkswagen Beetle on the grass verge, James and I were still just about able to manoeuvre our limbs and step enthusiastically out of the back seats into the bracing wind.

Looking around, it struck me that this was a supreme spot. Whichever bloodthirsty warrior had built the place four hundred odd years ago had known his onions (or potatoes, as the Irish might say). On one side the picturesque Galway Bay, her waters breaking gently against the rocky shoreline; on the other, as far as the eye could see, the famous rolling hills and fields criss-crossed by grey and ragged stone walls. Here, I felt, time really stood still—or used to until Granny A came along! She opened the gate, and we lugged our suitcases across the grassy courtyard. Looking up at the battlements, I was reminded of some of the best crossbow shoot-outs from my favourite
William Tell
television programmes.

The main tower, indeed the only tower, looked strong enough to withstand a direct hit from a meteor. Inside, I had the same impression. Apart from the kitchen, a ground-level extension of the tower, all rooms led off the narrow, solid stone spiral staircase. The castle felt as if it would fit comfortably into the nursery wing at Leeds, and had an ambience more suited to Sparta than to the Rome of Augustus. The thick stone walls were dark grey and gloomy, and the few mullioned windows that there were gave little light. The furniture was in keeping with Granny A’s rugged but tasteful approach: antique, well suited, and, in the case of the chairs, difficult to sit on in comfort for longer than ten minutes.

The first floor was the drawing room; the second, Granny’s area; the third, and top, our room. Only three floors hauling my case up the narrow, winding stone stairs and I felt as though I’d conquered a straightened-up version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

“There you are,” said Granny. “What took you so long? Your bed is over there. I was telling the boys that beds must be made before you come down to breakfast. Your drawer is this one.”

She indicated with her riding crop the bottom of a nice-looking chest of drawers. Then she strode out of the room, instructing us to unpack and report to the kitchen in half an hour for high tea.

James regarded the ensuing free time as the perfect opportunity for a cigarette. David cautioned against such a move, citing the unopenable windows as reason enough. James decided otherwise. I went over to have a look, and sure enough, there was a terrific view of the bay and not a latch or a handle in sight. Although by no means a keen proponent of icy draughts blowing through my bedroom at night (quite enough of that at school), I was intrigued that Granny, a massive devotee of the great outdoors if ever I knew one, should wish to have her castle sealed up like an Egyptian tomb.